Monday, April 21, 2014

This Was Once a Yucca

This was once a yucca. Now it is words, and tides,
and bark, and verdure. The abstractions were jokes, lozenges and ponds, places
in which the sky does not appall and destroy earnings. This is not a light
because that is not in its calm. Gingivitis serves the light. But what happened
first? Perfume schools, a boiling ticket and a torment to be disturbed by which
emotion is indigo or granite. Scourge meanings and themes. Jingle or a gun
bangs and a noodle whirls. This makes technology easy and there is often a
point to housing and feathers. The embrace of oblivion, the kimono’s harmonica.
Paint touches the ensemble money. Drool fiber if the dance of the grebe is a riotous
hit. Mint volume. The flare writhes in deeper attraction. Clasp Corso. I greet
the demonstration. It hooks a private excitement. The genre burns. That is
rather in the details carved and cooked. A violent control is first boxed than
packed in thick mud. The odor of the novel is the path to mustard and its
emotion. Infantry! Muscle personified to spin coordinates at a café or
trumpeted like a box to sound the transformation interprets the dark. Choose
the stew in the pathos knob that does a fluorescence, like Ezekiel. A moose above
the keyboard enriches ocher. The taproot opposes boiling but accepts its mood.
Infringement tied we galvanized it. The birth of thought is entertaining in a
piece of cloth. The reckless strength of cognition will menstruate when it is
squeezed. This is enveloped by a gaze, then dipped in haste. A structure of
clay fired at a heavy metal produces scholasticism and subterranean fungi,
usually truffles, a warm infrared that hobnobbing presents as a lyrical
opposition to predestination. Talking is jungles. Ooze feeling as burning
words. Steam. Abstract machine. Feeling is quicker than math. Death always has
money. The grebe which complies in embryonic beams is still developing. Sugar
is quixotic, a trapeze for Bach. Float the throat. Freight and farm not sent in
succession but hurled into redemption. The Blob was equipped with maple to
approach the sublime. The radical version elevated everyone. Emphasis slides
for a bug. Massive roots have pasting there. Passion forms a key. Winch a
willow with the moon. Wrestle a beginning. Travel by spectrum and growth. So
which is it going to be: to develop an echo, or mirror a raspberry? I was lost
and now odd is mutable and incognito. I must adorn everything with lips. I must
indulge a feeling of seaweed abhorred in sweat and engine. The phonograph
rattan has corners like codeine and slams the resonance of umber on a touch of
thistle. Ascensions are prodigal when crawling to greenery. Development
coppers. The air is dimes. Eyebrows harnessed to heaven. The glow of coal. The
pink of willow. Daylight stabbed by description. The physiology of wind
lengthens a seashore and ripples the sand. Blisters map the incense of
palliation. This is floating. This is bitumen. This is acceptance and scorn.
This was once a yucca. Proud and tall and potato chips.

About Me

John Olson is the author of Backscatter: New And Selected Poems, from Black Widow Press, Souls Of Wind, a novel about the notorious French poet Arthur Rimbaud in the American West, from Quale Press, and The Nothing That Is, an autobiographical novel from Ravenna Press. Larynx Galaxy, a collection of essays and prose poetry, appeared in June, 2012, from Black Widow Press. The Seeing Machine , a novel about French painter Georges Braque, appeared from Quale Press in fall 2012.